


All The Thanks You're Gonna Get

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Car Sex, Case Fic, Drama, Established Relationship, M/M, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-15
Updated: 2012-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-02 00:11:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are all kinds of weapons. And Cas has learned to wield more than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All The Thanks You're Gonna Get

**Author's Note:**

> Set some time after the conclusion of my _We Can Make The World Stop_ series. You need not have read that series to be able to jump in here, if you wish.

Being dead has, I think, made things easier between us.

After that, after going out in a "blaze of glory," as Dean says, our relationship seems so much simpler. So much more important. More vital.

That first night together, after, Dean said: "The clock's already struck twelve once. And now we have a chance to go around the dial one more time."

While the subtleties of this metaphor are lost on me, the gist is of it clear:

We have been granted more time together, somehow, by our Father. And I do not intend to waste it, however long it might be, this time.

And since we are alone, it is even easier, still.

He does not want to talk about Sam, about what happened in Maryland, and I understand that.

It would perhaps be fair to say that, for now, I am relieved.

***

Bobby sent word of a case in Ohio: three mass murders, three sets of killings, over the course of ten days. All in places of work, all committed by seemingly rational people.

"But that's always the way," Dean sighed. "They always look normal until they've got a gun in their hand."

While these sorts of incidents were not unusual, he said, in answer to my question, it was not usual to have three occur in such rapid succession, within just a 300-mile radius.

"Maybe it's nothing," he mused, tapping his fingers on the wheel. "But the ways things are going--"

His voice trailed off, but there was no need for him to continue. All that mattered to him, to me, was that people were dying, right then, and that was important. Whatever has happened, will happen between Heaven and Hell, some terrible thing was killing people, now.

And so we went.

He spent most of the journey trying to convince me that I should learn how to drive. That I should know how to do so, "just in case."

"Just in case--what?" I asked.

He made a vague hand gesture. "You know--in case something happens to me, and you need to--" He looked over, saw my confusion. "I mean--I know you can still travel by Skynet or whatever, but you might need to stay underground, or something, and this way you could--"

He glanced at me, let his voice trail off, and it was in his not speaking that I saw his meaning.

"Dean," I said, smiling into his eyes. "Are you trying to protect me?"

"What?" he spluttered, in a voice that said _yes_. "You're a frickin' angel, Cas, you don't need me to--"

"Uh huh," I said, stealing one of his expressions. "I see."

"No, you--I didn't mean that--"

"Shut up," I told him, I commanded, sliding across the seat, reaching for his face. "I am trying to say thank you. Can you not graciously accept my thanks?" I ran my fingers over his cheek, caught his jaw, and his face turned up beneath my hand.

"Mmmm," he said, letting his voice thicken. "Those the best kinds of thanks you got?"

I smacked his cheek, just a little. Let my hand linger. "While you are operating a motorized vehicle? Yes," I said.

He laughed. "See? This is exactly why you need to learn how to drive. Because I don't have those kinds of moral hangups."

"What do you mean?" I asked, stretching away, shrugging out of my coat.

"I mean," he said, his voice wicked and bright, "that I would totally go down on you when you were driving." Pause. "As a way of expressing my gratitude."

I was shocked. And a little intrigued, perhaps.

"Your gratitude--for what?" I managed, a bit breathless, all of a sudden.

He turned his head, his eyes met mine, and I realized I did not really care about the answer.

"What was that, Cas?" he asked, teasing, relishing his ability to fluster me, utterly.

"Dean," I groaned, reaching for my belt, grabbing for his hand. "Pull over. Pull the car over. NOW."

And--

It may have taken us somewhat longer to reach Columbus than it should have. Had Dean not been so insistent on "thanking" me. If I had not taken such pains to express my gratitude to him. Once or twice.

When we arrived at the place where the latest killings had occurred--something called an office park, though it was all cement, dead and solid rather than green and alive--it was deserted, hung through with yellow streamers and chalk lines that glowed in the almost dark.

Dean sighed.

"Cas," he said, not looking at me. "You know this is probably just your sad, everyday nutjob shooting up his boss and them that done him wrong. Doesn't feel like our thing."

I will admit: I was pleased to hear him say "our" in this context.

But.

I glanced over and his distress was evident. I leaned into him, a little. Let my shoulder brush his.

"Dean," I said, quietly, for you could feel it: it had become a graveyard, this place. The dead were still hovering, not yet at rest. "You said yourself this was not usual, for killings like these to happen again and again and again, like this. And--something is wrong, here. Can you not sense it?"

He sighed again and pressed into me, letting my body feel his weight.

"Yeah," he said, "yeah, I know, it's just--"

"This place. It makes you uneasy," I finished, fixing my eyes on the building in front of us. On the blood still clinging to the concrete.

He let his shoulders sag. "Yeah. Well. Not gonna get any easier, right?" He marched off without looking back, reaching for his badge, for the posture of human authority: an uneasy second skin, for him.

There was only one law enforcement officer inside, "protecting evidence," he announced, whatever that meant. I knew enough, now, to keep silent and to let Dean speak to the man in their human rhythms, posturing, negotiating, positioning, until Dean won, as he always does, and we went up to the second level, where, the officer told us, the "shootings" had begun.

We walked through spaces that had, only recently, been alive with talk and movement and work, of some kind. I could not tell what sort, nor did it matter, I suppose; but Dean took a lot of time, at first, looking carefully at each workspace, at the photos of children and parties and people in beach attire. Happier moments than those that had happened here.

There was blood everywhere. Soaked into the carpets, flung carelessly on the walls, draped over the chairs. It still smelled of death, that place.

But no demons. No ghosts. Nothing familiar that I could sense, though something about being there unsettled me. I could not determine why, exactly, but I felt--uneasy.

Dean grew very quiet, after a time. Withdrew into himself, moved methodically, stopped looking at the photos, stopped searching for the people who had been lost here.

Which was, I think, a reasonable way of coping. Though for all that he has seen--all that he has done, all he knows might be possible--it struck me, how sad he seemed, there.

He was not afraid, not exactly; but that place--

I think that it reminded him of Hell.

We found nothing of value there, and, after a time, we made our way back down the stairs, past the officer, and back into the car.

He did not say a word. Just slid behind the wheel and turned out of the parking lot, back onto the main road.

He drove to a motel and he stayed in the shower for a long, long time.

If I had listened, I know. I would have heard him sobbing.

***  
Humans use sex, I have learned, for many different purposes. Not simply to give and receive pleasure, or to procreate, but sometimes to comfort. To reassure. To antagonize. To taunt. As a weapon. As a promise. To forget. To remember. To forgive.

Often, it is used to do many of these things, all at once.

That night, he sought comfort in my arms. Dragged reassurance from my mouth, sucked it from my skin. I sketched my love across his chest, traced it into his throat, painted it between his legs. In me, in the ephemeral, he sought solace, some sense of stability, of sweetness, in the face of all that is dark in humans, all that can be twisted and broken. All that can injure and kill.

What I did not tell him--what I hope he knows, by now--is that we hold the same capacities inside ourselves as do they. To slay. To maim. To destroy.

But to him, then, I showed only what we could make, together.

And he was anxious, almost desperate to know it, to have me kiss him and touch him and whisper in his ear until he shattered in my hand, until he pushed me down into the sheets and teased me until I could not speak, until he was communicating only with my body, and oh, the things he was able to say. To make me say, to scream back into his mouth, between his fingers, deep in his throat.

He slept in my arms, heavy and fast, and when I woke up, long before dawn, he was shivering. I curled myself around his body, pushed my mouth against his neck, and listened to his nightmares.

He spent the day collecting paperwork, photographs, newspapers, and buried it all in a box in the trunk.

We spent the night in the car, him driving, me watching him, again, the music curling around us both but touching neither.

We were quiet.

The next day, we repeated the same sad cycle in Pittsburgh, working our way back to the previous incident. The second. A shooting in a clinic for those considered mentally ill. More blood, more grief, but no family photos, this time. Only a waiting room, a lobby, that felt haunted, even as the living moved through it. This time, an officer had shot the killer after only four had been slain.

"Only four," repeated Dean under his breath, storming through the clinic's doors. "Do you believe that shit, Cas? 'Only four.' Christ, who talks like that?"

"That administrator, apparently," I said, squinting in the afternoon sun. "Jesus, however, has no such penchant for understatement."

He huffed in that way he has when he is trying not to laugh. "Really?" he said. "What's he like, then? Jesus?"

I pressed my hands on the passengers' door, watched him search for his keys. "He is quite--proud of his accomplishments."

"Uh huh."

"And rather unabashed in his willingness to repeat them. Frequently. At a rather loud volume."

He laughed. "You don't like him, do you?"

"I did not say that," I protested. "You are putting words in my mouth, Dean."

He rolled his eyes and opened his door. "Dude, it's no fun when you make it that easy for me. C'mon."

I got in, frowning.

"I do not understand; I was simply noting that you--"

He was waiting for me. Took my head in his hands before I could even sit down. Dropped his tongue into my mouth and dug his fingers into my neck.

He pulled away, too soon. Grinning.

"Now tell me. Why would I bother putting words in your mouth when there's other stuff that's a lot more fun to jam in there?"

"I--why would I--?" I managed, the syllables feeling stupid and heavy in my mouth.

"Exactly," he said with a wink.

But for all of his bravado, his bluster, we spent another night entangled, his heart pounding under my hand, his body trembling beneath me, beside me, until it was light.

The next day, more images, more papers, more stories fell into the box inside the trunk.

He spent the night driving, his arm draped behind my head, my fingers on his thigh.

Then: Steubenville, Ohio. The first. A paper mill. Older blood, chalk lines washed away by the rain. More paper. More photographs. More grief in that place, in his face.

His mouth moving beneath mine, his fingers dug deep into my back, his voice soft and sad in my ear.

On the next day, a Sunday, he pulled the shades and dumped the box out on the bed, spilled faces and bodies and reports over the blanket, and started searching for order.

This is not a task at which I am adept, arranging, plotting, organizing in a material sense, so I stayed quiet and watched. Watched his thinking, his way of seeing unfold first in piles, then in clouds, then on the wall across from the bed, images and words pinned in place, their borders touching, tracing, in a way that only he could read.

After some hours, he stepped back, surveyed his work, and for a moment--just a flash, a wink of the human eye--I saw my Father, in him. A creator. An arranger of chaos, warding off the void with order and structure, with this thing that he had made.

I said none of this to him. Instead, I got up, wound my arms around his waist, pressed my face into his back. He chuckled and his body drooped pleasantly, relaxed into me.

I closed my eyes and we swayed, a little. He pressed his hands into mine and we were quiet, for a time.

"This is good, isn't it," he said. A statement, not a question.

And once I would not have known what he meant, to what he was referring, but now, there was no doubt.

"Yes," I murmured. "Yes, Dean. So good."

And it was, even in the sight of those staring faces, all of the senseless death. Maybe because of it. It was good.

"I don't want to do this," he said, suddenly, and for a moment, I was terrified.

"I don't want to care about any of this," he said. He threw his hand at the wall, taking in all that he had made, and I breathed, again.

"If you did not," I said, squeezing his waist. "You would not be you. And then, perhaps, you would not be the person whom I love."

"Ah," he sighed. "Blackmail. And flattery. Awesome combo, Cas."

I shook my head, knocking my forehead into his shoulder.

"You are being deliberately obtuse," I murmured.

I felt him chuckle again.

"Yeah yeah," he said. "Well. If I weren't, maybe you wouldn't love me anymore. If I suddenly got all reasonable like."

"Probably not," I agreed, just to hear him howl.

He spent the next half hour showing me why such a decision would be a mistake. Kissed me until I was dizzy, touched me until it stung, reveled in all that he could draw from my body. From me.

When I was myself, again, he was standing in front of his wall, jeans slung low on his hips, his back bare. Something in his body was different; he saw something differently, now.

I stayed strung in the sheets, afraid to disturb him and too pleased and heavy to move.

After a time, he turned back to me, his beauty stark against the broken lives pinned behind his head.

"It's not a demon," he said, certain. "Not a haunting. It's the same guy."

I sat up.

"The same human?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. I think so."

He pulled things from his web, brought them to me. "Walked me through it," as he said.

An EMT in Pittsburgh. A janitor in Columbus. A security guard in Steubenville.

Not the killer, supposedly--but a witness.

The same man, present in all three places. Ready and eager, it seemed, to tell the police what he had seen. To give his name. The same, each time.

"I do not understand," I said. "Why would your law enforcement officers not take note of this?"

He bumped his bare shoulder into mine, amused.

"You mean, if lil' ol' me can figure it out, why can't they?"

"Yes."

He snorted. "First of all, Cas, give me some credit here: I'm fucking smart about shit like this. Second, why would the cops even be looking this closely? The feds might, maybe, but we haven't seen them sniffing around. Nobody sees any connection here but us. Nobody's looked in all three places at once but us."

"Hmmm," I said.

"And the only way you'd know is if you read all the witness statements, see? Looked carefully at the lists of employees."

He traced his finger over, across, and down: Edward Clark. The same name, three places. The same face?

"I don't know," he said, shaking his head. "I haven't seen a photo of him yet. But there's gotta be one here somewhere."

I looked up at the wall and back at him. Pressed my mouth against his shoulder, for a minute.

"If he is here," I said into his skin. "We will find him."

And we did. A grainy picture from a newspaper in Columbus. From the last one. A picture in front of that building, back in that terrible place. A tiny caption that said: _Edward Clark (left)_. An older man, frail, with a gentle face. He was looking right at the camera. And smiling.

"Ha!" Dean said, rattling the paper in his hand. "Gotcha, you sick bastard."

"But why these places?" I asked. "How are they connected, except through him?"

"Maybe we should ask him that, yeah?" he said. He sat down on the bed and reached for his boots. "What do you want to bet that he's still there, in Columbus?"

I did not know why, but something in me shivered, when he said that.

Something in me said: _Stay away_.

"Dean," I said, reaching for him. "Perhaps this is not our business."

He blinked. "What?"

"You said yourself: this is probably just a human. A very sick one, perhaps, but one who is not our concern."

He shrugged, pulled the laces tight. "Maybe. But we don't know that for sure."

I shoved him, a little. Made him meet my eyes.

"Dean. What if there is no--supernatural element at work here? Then why should we become involved? We could simply pass this information onto your law enforcement, and--"

"It's not my law enforcement, ok? And what's with the sudden gun-shy, dude? I thought it would be right up your alley, even if it is a human: a chance for some righteous smiting, and all that."

Something in me said: _Keep him away_.

I changed tactics.

I leaned over and kissed him, full and flush on the mouth. Curled my tongue between his lips, around his teeth. Folded myself into his lap, pushed him back into the bed.

He tugged me down until I was draped over him, until his mouth was mine. Until I thought that I had won.

He caught my hips in his hands and rocked up into me until I was panting his name into his face.

Then he stopped, pushed me up and off, his mouth still curved in the shape of my own.

"No way," he said, sliding off the bed. "Not getting out of it that easily. Nice try, though." He grinned. "Feel free to try that one anytime."

I reached up, grabbed a pillow, threw it at his back. Tried to catch my breath.

He sang on the way back to Columbus, his fingers wound in my hair.

***

Dean was right: Edward Clark was still there. At the same address he had given the police.

And the moment he opened the door, I knew.

I yanked Dean back by the collar, threw him out of the doorway, heard his head bounce off the sidewalk. Reached for my sword.

The angel, his vessel, smiled pleasantly and stood aside, cardigan and all.

"Castiel," he said, his voice calm and pleasant. "Come in. But leave him out here; I don't allow dogs in the house."

I stepped inside and backed the door closed, the sword hot and ready in my hand.

"I do not know you," I said.

He shook his head. "No, but that's not important, is it? You may not know me, but you know where I stand, yes?"

I scowled. Kept my eyes locked on his, waiting for him to feint. To reach for a weapon of his own.

He did neither.

Instead, he chuckled. "Yes, I see that you do. Well. Won't you come in?"

He strolled into the next room, utterly relaxed, his white hair glittering in the sunlight.

"Why?" I growled, knowing what Dean would say, if he were with me: _Stop talking and gank the bastard!_

But I needed to know. Needed to try and understand why one of my brothers would do this. Would slay innocents so casually.

"Because," he said, falling into an armchair. Smiling at me. "It needed to be done. They need to learn, again, whom they should fear. And why."

My face must have shown my confusion, for he sighed.

"Castiel," he said, and I realized that I did not like hearing my name come from his mouth. "We are their superiors. In all things. Or has your time fucking the mutt out there made you forget that?"

I realized that I did not like hearing him talk about Dean, either.

"We are not," I said, balancing the sword in my fingers, my eyes locked on his. "That is not what our Father intended."

He made a little gesture. Dismissed this thought, brushed it away like a fly.

"Tsk tsk," he said. "Well. Raphael said you felt that way, but I did not believe it. I suppose we will have to agree to disagree on that."

"No," I said, advancing on him. "We will not."

And still he did not run.

"Ah well," he said jovially, watching my sword swing towards him. "By the way, Castiel--" and I froze. I do not know why; something in his voice commanded it. "I am Ahadiel. That is the name of your brother whom you are about to slay. The angel whom you will kill today."

And once, I think, this would have stopped me. Would have given me pause long enough to still my hand, to sheath my sword.

But not now. Being dead has made killing easier.

I plunged the weapon into his heart and he smiled into my face as he died.

***

We did not speak until it was dark. Until we were far away from that place.

"So they can do that?" he said, finally. "You can do that? Make people do what you want?"

I sighed.

"It is not a--skill that we all possess. Nor are all human susceptible to it. Once, it was much more common. But now--your wills are much stronger. Your ability to resist."

"Oh," Dean said, softly. "But--he could have killed you, Cas."

"Yes," I said. "He could have. But he chose not to."

"Why?"

I was tired, then. So tired.

"That was not his purpose. Not his mission. He was sent to--" I heard my voice trail away, for a moment.

"To what?"

"To test me, perhaps. To tempt me. To send a message. To taunt me. I do not know, Dean. I cannot explain Raphael's ways to you. I do not understand them myself."

"So," he said, after a time. "It was a trap."

"Perhaps. But. Justice was done."

He turned towards me, the moon cutting his features in two.

"Really? That's what you think."

"No, Dean," I said. "That is what I know."

He shook his head, turned back to the road.

"I never thought I'd hear you say that," he whispered.

I pretended not to have heard.

"So now the angel brigade knows where we are," he said, and it was not a question.

"I cannot escape them. Nor will I continue to try. It is you whom I am trying to protect."

He leaned back, looked over, and even in the dark I could see his heart in his eyes.

"Ok," he sighed. "Ok."

I reached over and stroked his face. He leaned his cheek into my fingers, turned his head just enough so that he could catch one in his teeth, for a moment.

"Cas," he said. "What in the hell am I going to do with you?"

"Well," I said. "You could--thank me."

He laughed, and oh, it was good to hear. "Wait, you just wasted one of Raphael's foot soldiers, one of his sacrificial, let's-fuck-Cas-over lambs, and you want me to--?"

"I can think of no better way to affirm my continued existence," I managed, my heart starting to pound in my chest. "And to continue to justify yours."

"What?!" he barked. "Oh, you are such a little--come here!"

He grabbed for me with one hand and I ducked away, grinning at him in the dark.

"Fine," he shouted. "Fine, Castiel!"

He yanked the wheel and we slid off of the road, onto the shoulder, and before the car had stopped I grabbed him, threw my mouth against his, groaning even before he could get his hands on me.

He seemed to understand where I was, what I wanted, because he shoved a hand between my legs, ran his fingers over my cock as we kissed, as I fell apart under his tongue. I pushed myself into his hands and it was awkward, there was not enough room and I was anxious, almost at the edge from the fear and anxiety and the certainty that today was only the first, only one of many days like this to come.

I pulled myself from under his mouth, yanked his head down towards my lap.

"Oh my god," he snorted. "I am such a bad influence on you."

"Less talking," I panted. "More thanking."

"And what am I thanking you for?" he breathed, opening me up and grabbing, stroking, squeezing.

My body shot up towards his mouth, and when he found me, when he took me in, we were both grateful, I think: the day was over, we were both alive, and for that moment, that was more than enough to be thankful for.


End file.
